


Burning Through the Sky

by ausgezeichnet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ace Omens, Adventure, Lots of dialogue, M/M, Stupid choices, canon AU, lots of nonsense, references to spaceballs because of who i am as a person, the bentley goes to space!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22445254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausgezeichnet/pseuds/ausgezeichnet
Summary: Crowley, panic-stricken about the end of the world, flees into space in defiance of god and gravity, but Aziraphale won’t let him leave so easily. Will Crowley make the brave choice, and turn back to fight alongside Aziraphale for the planet that has become their home?Or: Crowley and Aziraphale go on a very strange road trip. Hijinks ensue.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Burning Through the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> I've really enjoyed doing the Good Omens Big Bang, and I'm excited to finally get to post this fic!! 
> 
> This work features embedded art by the amazing f.loramy-- check out their other work [here!](https://campsite.bio/floramy)
> 
> Thanks to [ParnoidPerson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanshapedstress), the story coach who helped me figure out a new direction for the introduction, and to the GOBB mods, who were incredibly responsive and well-organized. 
> 
> Finally, thanks to my beta readers, who made this fic infinitely better: [Morcuen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morcuen/pseuds/Morcuen), who read through an early version of this fic, [transarmageddon,](https://transarmageddon.tumblr.com) aka [hastur_lavista](https://twitter.com/hastur_lavista?lang=en%22), my official beta for the bang, and [Sourboi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sourboi/pseuds/Sourboi), who stepped in at the last minute to offer some awesome suggestions! (go check out [ their big bang fic ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22414948) while you're at it!)

In the beginning, the rules were simple. Being good led to eternal salvation. Being bad led to a good bit of fun, some first-rate music, and eventually, eternal damnation. Simple, elegant, ineffable. 

So, naturally, the humans had mucked it all up. 

Suddenly, there were questions. Did good deeds matter at all? Were good intentions important, even if they reportedly paved the road to hell? Was showing up in church in itchy wool clothing helpful, or just exceedingly uncomfortable? Was the whole thing a pre-scripted rehearsal of a play written by an exacting, unseen director? Did anyone upstairs care, at all, about any of it?

Humans wrote volumes asking such questions, and earned college degrees by answering "no one knows for sure" in increasingly complicated ways. That was the trouble: the Almighty was notoriously difficult to contact, whether you shouted your prayers into the wind or whispered them into your pillow at night, and the only reliable method for most humans to get in contact with a Higher Authority was an appointment with Death. Unfortunately, if the dead ever got any answers, they never reported back, at least not in a way anyone could understand. 

Even demons got caught up in the debates. It was all very well to know that there was a divine plan, but not particularly comforting to know that part of that divine plan involved yourself and thousands of your fellow former angels falling into a burning pit of sulfur. Hard to have faith in the fairness of the plan after an incident like that. Hard to have faith in anything, really-- that was an essential part of being a demon. 

Despite the change in management, demons remained focused on notions of good and evil, just from the other side. A demon could get in serious trouble for doing the right thing. You had to be careful. Take Crowley, as a cautionary example: he was currently screeching towards Soho at extremely high speeds, disregarding every law of traffic he knew (which, granted, wasn't very many). By all accounts, a fine demonic action. He nearly struck three pedestrians, and made several post boxes leap out of the way. Not one of his superiors would reproach him for it.

Then again, he was driving with the sole mission of begging an angel to run away with him, one last time, because the world was ending. Well, not quite yet, but Armageddon was penciled in large red letters on the grand celestial calendar for later that evening, and like all deadlines, it was arriving far too quickly for comfort. 

Did that make his intentions good, even if his methods were demonic? Was he currently Doing Good? The thought sent a static shiver down his spine, and he shifted uncomfortably in the driver's seat of the Bentley, gripping hard on the steering wheel. From the radio came Brahms' "Under Pressure." Was it the universe playing a joke, or was it Her? Damned if he knew, and also damned if he didn't. 

Well. No use worrying about it now. The horsemen were riding. Leaving two hours ago would have been ideal. "This is our last chance," indeed. 

He could leave now. Abandon Aziraphale and run. No one can reproach you for cowardice if you're sipping mimosas on the other side of the universe. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, swerved around an elderly lady walking her Pomeranian, and debated. Hell was sure as hell going to be coming after him. Maybe heaven too. No place to hide on Earth with the Antichrist misplaced and ready to succumb to the dark voices howling in his head (through no fault of Crowley’s own, except maybe a little bit). Leaving now, immediately and alone, was the safest option. 

Except it didn’t quite seem right, leaving alone. 

Normally, he was all in favor of things that weren't right. But the thought of turning tail and running without Aziraphale significantly dimmed his rosy view of retirement on Alpha Centauri. After all, they had an Arrangement, argument or no, and leaving Aziraphale to burn in the hellfire of the Antichrist would definitely violate the terms of their Arrangement. 

Crowley coaxed the Bentley up to eighty-five miles per hour and whipped around the corner of Aziraphale’s street. His mind was made up. Aziraphale would have to see reason and come with him, no matter what they’d said in anger at the gazebo. 

Scanning the crowd of oblivious humans crowding the Soho sidewalk outside the bookshop, he caught sight of a shock of fluffy white hair and a desperately unstylish overcoat. There he was. Crowley screeched to a halt to park in front of the bookshop, in the loosest possible sense of the word “park,” and threw himself out of the Bentley. 

It was now or never, quite literally, since the Antichrist was about to end the Earth, humanity, and likely the concept of time itself, which was more or less a human invention. The Almighty chipped in by inventing “day” and “night,” and humanity picked it up from there, but there would soon be no humans left to keep track of things like Tuesdays. In the Apocalypse, it’s always one time, and that time is Too Late. 

Too Late hadn’t arrived quite yet, however. Or at least, Crowley fervently hoped that it hadn’t, since the locust swarms and rivers of blood didn’t seem to have arrived just yet. He raised his hands in a beseeching gesture, stepping towards the angel on the bustling Soho sidewalk. 

“Angel!” Crowley said.

Aziraphale turned to face him, shoulders tensing. He looked as he always did, intelligent and well-trimmed, but his eyes and the tight press of his lips betrayed his worried preoccupation with the impending Apocalypse. 

“I’m sorry. I apologize," Crowley continued. "Whatever I said, I didn’t mean it. Work with me, I’m apologizing here. Yes? Good. Get in the car.” 

“What? No!” Aziraphale said, looking as appalled as if Crowley had suggested he trade one of his limited edition misprint bibles for a crayon-scribbled children’s edition. 

Crowley’s entire body was alight, thrumming with tension at the impending danger. Being in the Bentley was one thing, but he felt horrendously exposed in the open among the masses of humanity. He felt prickly, like someone had rubbed a static-charged balloon across his scalp, and resisted the urge to bristle like a cornered cat. A storm was brewing, banks of dark clouds gathering on the horizon. They desperately needed to leave. 

“Forces of Hell have figured out it was my fault, but we can run away together!” he said, gesturing up towards the sky. His gaze remained fixed on Aziraphale’s face, looking for any indication that he might have a chance of convincing Aziraphale to leave. “Alpha Centauri! Lots of spare planets up there, nobody would even notice us!” 

“Crowley, you’re being… ridiculous,” said Aziraphale primly, shuffling nervously on his feet. “Look, I’m quite sure if I can just… reach the right people, then I can get all this sorted out.” 

“There aren’t any right people,” Crowley said incredulously, stepping closer towards Aziraphale. “There’s just God, moving in mysterious ways and _not talking to any of us_.” 

“Yes, and that is why I’m going to have a word with the Almighty, and then the Almighty will fix it,” Aziraphale said with a nod, grasping his hands together in the manner of a politician buckling down on an argument. 

“That- won’t happen!” Crowley spluttered. “How can you not see that?” 

Something shifted in Aziraphale’s eyes. “It’s no use, Crowley,” he said softly, eyes infinitely sad.

Crowley stared aghast. 6,000 years, and he’d never considered behaving like a proper demon should behave towards his adversary, preferring dinner and affectionate teasing to actively using his demonic wiles. 

Now, for the first time in a very long time, his darkest impulses whispered to life. He considered temptation, threats, bribery, and kidnapping in turn, rejecting each of them just as quickly. Aziraphale was nothing if not a stubborn bastard when he puts his mind to something. The pit of Crowley's stomach dropped deeper than the sulfurous pits of hell. He would be leaving on his own after all. 

“Fine, then," Crowley said, doing his best to appear indifferent even as the acid of rejection burned in his throat. "Have it your way. I'm leaving."

Aziraphale startled. The notion of a planet without Crowley was somehow more unfathomable than Armageddon itself, even to Aziraphale’s keenly developed intellect and literature-nurtured imagination. There are some things that simply are, and should continue to be, constants. "What- now?" he asked.

"When else?" asked Crowley, shrugging his narrow shoulders up towards his ears. "Planet ending, after all."

They stood a moment, each hoping the other would change their mind. Other pedestrians passed around them, occasionally jostling their shoulders, parting unconcerned around the stand-off on the sidewalk. One woman shuffled nervously past, clutching her purse to her chest, as if she expected Aziraphale and Crowley to draw revolvers and duel. 

A short, bearded man ambled by, eyeing the pair of them with a knowing gaze. “Lover’s spat, eh?” he said to Aziraphale in passing. The angel paid him no notice, but the intrusion snapped Crowley out of his reverie. 

"Right, then," Crowley said, taking a step backwards towards his car and throwing his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the haphazardly parked Bentley near the curb. "I'll just be- going. Goodbye, angel."

"You can't leave," Aziraphale said, squaring his shoulders like the soldier he was long ago. "I won't- I won't let you. Not when we still have a chance."

" _Let_ me?" Crowley said. "What, are you going to stop me?"

"Yes," Aziraphale said, sticking out his chin with the manner of a teacher daring a student to challenge them. "If it comes to that."

Crowley chuckled darkly, then fell silent when Aziraphale continued staring at him defiantly. 

"You're serious," he said, slowly. 

"Deadly," Aziraphale said, widening his stance. He still didn’t appear particularly intimidating in his faded waistcoat and tartan bow-tie, but appearances often deceive. In another dimension, his wings unfurled; his aura brimmed with untapped power. 

"Deadly? You'd _kill_ me to stop me from leaving?" Crowley asked, resisting the urge to unfurl his own wings and curl them protectively around his own shoulders. 

"What? No, don’t be silly," Aziraphale said, deflating a little. "I only meant- I'm serious, Crowley. Really truly serious. Don't test me. Please."

"Don’t test you?" Crowley said with a hint of a smirk, taking another step back towards the Bentley. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. There it was-- the humor, the deflection. Crowley kept talking. "That is kind of part of the job description,” he said. “A specialty of mine, really. You may remember. In the garden."

"Crowley," Aziraphale said in a low tone, taking a step forward to match Crowley’s retreat, as if they were waltzing, very slowly. 

Crowley back-pedaled rapidly and side-stepped out into the street. He ducked around the back of the car, resting his arms on the roof, then paused to look at Aziraphale with the Bentley as a protective barrier between them. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale said, his voice turning pleading as he took another step forward. "Please, just give the Almighty a chance to address the issue. I’m sure she’ll sort things right out.”

"Can’t stay,” said Crowley, shaking his head. 

“I’ll- I’ll never talk to you again,” Aziraphale said. “If you leave.”

“Fine,” Crowley said, waving his hand dismissively in a gesture that would have seemed flippant if his hand were not shaking. “I'll go to Alpha Centauri and I won't- I won't even think about you.”

With that, he opened the driver's side door and swung into the seat, taking a steadying breath as he settled into the leather. He turned the key. The engine roared to life. He turned up the stereo to hear the dulcet opening words of “Love of my Life,” by F. Mendelssohn-- _love of my life, you’ve hurt me. You’ve broken my heart, and now you leave me_ \-- and promptly shut the stereo off again. 

“Cut it out,” he said to the car, blinking rapidly behind his sunglasses. If snakes had tear ducts, he may have been crying, but as they don’t, he definitely was not crying, thank you very much. 

"Crowley!!" yelled Aziraphale, rapping sharply on the passenger's side window. 

Crowley readjusted his sunglasses to rest further up on the bridge of his nose, and put the car in gear, purposefully avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. He hadn't quite determined how he was going to get to space, but he imagined the details would work themselves out. Making plans was like raising plants in that way-- if you glared and threatened enough, they'd sort themselves right out. 

"Crowley, I won't let you leave," Aziraphale said, his voice very close and no longer muffled by the car window. Crowley jumped, banging his bony knees against the steering wheel, and looked over to find Aziraphale sitting in the front seat without ever having opened the door. 

"I thought you didn't want to get in the car?" Crowley asked.

"I don't!" exclaimed Aziraphale. "But you can't drive off if I'm sitting here, and- Crowley!!" 

Over the years, Crowley had developed an instinctive response to being told that he could not do something, which was, of course, to become hellbent on doing that exact thing. It had a tendency to get him into trouble. His reaction to Aziraphale telling him he could not leave had been to immediately slam his foot down on the gas pedal, sending the car rocketing forward.

The Bentley sped forward through the London traffic at a speed that should have been impossible, and since everyone knew it was impossible for a car to have accelerated so quickly in the miserable honking mass of traffic clogging the streets, they ignored the Bentley as it cut through gaps in traffic too narrow for the body of the car. 

“Crowley, stop the car!” Aziraphale shrieked, grabbing desperately for a handhold as they skidded around a corner, leaving black rubber skid marks across the pavement and the blare of car horns behind them. 

"Sorry, didn’t quite catch that," Crowley said, shouting over the roar of the rapidly accelerating car. 

"I _said--_ eyes on the road!!-- that I wasn't going to let you leave without-- there's a traffic light!!-- putting up a fight, and I happen to know that-- good heavens, _**watch out!!"**_ Aziraphale shrieked, covering his face with his hands. 

With a flick of his finger, Crowley nudged an enormous double-decker tour bus stuck in an intersection out of the way and plunged through the newly created gap in traffic.

"I'm leaving, angel," Crowley said. "You may as well come with me. You're already in the car."

"I will do no such thing!" Aziraphale said. "I told you, I’ve got to contact the Almighty. Besides, what about my shop? The books can’t simply be left unattended!” 

"Angel," Crowley said, swinging right around a corner and narrowly avoiding a lamppost. Behind his sunglasses, there was a manic gleam in his eye. "There won't _be_ any more books. That's the point. It's Armageddon. _Today."_

"But- still!! There’s a book-- there’s one book you’ll want to see,” Azirphale said, wincing as the Bentley veered into the bike lane. “I perhaps should have mentioned this earlier, but no matter. I have a book with highly relevant information about today’s prophesied events, and I simply must inform my superiors about what I have discovered. Now, would you kindly turn this infernal chariot around?”

Without slowing the car, Crowley turned to stare at Aziraphale for a long moment of incredulous disbelief. After a moment, he grimaced, and turned back to the traffic in front of them, much to Aziraphale’s relief. 

“You really won’t leave without the books?” he asked, swinging out into the right lane to scoot around a Mercedes. 

“I won’t leave at all,” Aziraphale said, wincing as horns honked behind them. “But yes, I need to get back to the bookshop. Immediately.” 

“Then leave,” Crowley said. “Take the bus. Fly. See if I care.” 

“Only if I have your absolute assurance that you won’t leave the planet while I am otherwise occupied,” Aziraphale said, voice quiet but determined. 

Crowley wrinkled his upper lip in distaste, then sighed again. “Have it your way, then,” he said, then swung a slightly slower left. He made several more turns, muttering under his breath, and Aziraphale looked around curiously as they passed a familiar laundromat and the pub, then turned back onto Aziraphale’s street. 

Aziraphale brightened as Crowley screeched to a halt in front of the bookshop once again. The sidewalk was still bustling with pedestrians. 

Armageddon had everyone unsettled, even if they weren’t aware of their imminent demise. People hurried past, eyes on the pavement, desperate to get to their destination even if they couldn’t understand why. Their instincts were warning them to get Away. Many were contemplating last minute weekend getaways to the countryside, although a flight to Mars would have been more beneficial to their overall survival chances. 

“I knew you’d see reason,” Aziraphale said, beaming at Crowley.

"Not quite,” Crowley said. "Hold on, I'll be just a moment,” he said, opening the car door and slinking towards the bookshop. As he walked away, the doors developed child-safety locks, which clicked shut. 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said indignantly, rapping on the glass of the passenger’s side door. With a quick miracle, the locks decided to unlock themselves, and he stepped out of the car, only to see the shiny red soles of Crowley's expensive shoes disappearing as the front door of Aziraphale’s bookstore swung closed behind him. 

"Well, I never!" Aziraphale said, tugging his waistcoat firmly into place in preparation for giving Crowley a piece of his mind. "The nerve of him."

After gently closing the car door behind him, ever respectful of antiques despite the circumstances, he began walking across the sidewalk with the manner of a scorned librarian about to confront a hooligan group of giggling teenagers with a human anatomy textbook, only to come face-to-face with Sergeant Shadwell, who looked shabbier than ever in his omnipresent macintosh. 

"Ah, hello, Mr. Fell, sir," Shadwell said, with what was probably intended to be a charming smile. The sight would have made any dentist faint and immediately give up their profession. "Just the man I was looking for."

Aziraphale stopped short, caught in the intricate web of the rules of human politeness. "Oh?" he said, edging towards the haven behind the bookshop doors, but there was no escaping the conversation, or the nauseating combined smell of condensed milk and cigarettes wafting from Shadwell. 

Shadwell, encouraged, stepped closer. "As yer such a benevolent supporter o’ the battlin' of occult forces,” he said. “I thought I ought teh come speak to ye about a matter of importance. When it comes to combatin’ the scourge o’witchcraft. Thought ye ought to be kept informed.” 

"Yes, of course," Aziraphale said faintly, looking for escape in any direction with the manner of a cornered rabbit. Other pedestrians passing by deliberately avoided eye contact with both of them, recognizing the universal body language of someone who has been unwittingly ensnared in a conversation on the street, possibly to talk about saving the animals or, worse, the environment. 

"-on account of ye bein’ such a gen’rous patron,” Shadwell continued. “Thought I might ask ye for an advance on the next payment. For me transport costs on a rescue mission.” 

“Ah, well,” Aziraphale said. “Perhaps- perhaps we can discuss this another time. Rather busy at the moment, you see.” 

“Wouldn’t ask it of ye,” Shadwell said. “But one of me soldiers has got into spot ah trouble. Inna wee village called Tadfield. Got to get after him, ye ken. Canna leave any soldiers behind.” 

"What?" Aziraphale said, all his attention snapping back to Shadwell in shock. "He’s found him? One of your operatives has found him?"

Shadwell frowned. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, and he didn’t like the sudden keen intelligence in the bookshop owner’s eyes when they met his own. Whenever he’d spoken to the man before, he always seemed like a hazy academic, half his mind preoccupied with great questions of the universe. Now he seemed sharp, and powerful, and old. 

“Found who?” Shadwell asked, reaching in his pocket for his pin and official Witchfinder Army membership card. Just in case. You really never knew when they would come in handy. 

*** * ***

Inside the bookshop, Crowley surveilled the haphazard and dimly lit collection, centuries in the making. Books never managed to hold Crowley’s interest for long. Still, you couldn’t hang around Aziraphale for a few millennia without learning a few things about which volumes were valuable. The misprint bibles and first edition Oscar Wilde texts would have to come with, as well as the books of prophecy nearly destroyed in the Blitz, but what else?

Crowley could imagine Aziraphale standing next to him, huffily refusing to abandon a single book and refusing to let anyone else handle them, even though Aziraphale would keep getting distracted by old forgotten volumes he pulled off his own shelves when he tried to reorganize anything. The shop was organized along principles that no one but the angel could possibly understand. 

Strolling over to the nearest table, Crowley picked a book at random, which featured an illustrated Grim Reaper lounging in a farmer’s straw hat. What would the humans think of next? 

Well, nothing, assuming Armageddon happened later in the afternoon as scheduled, but even still, you couldn’t discount that the next marvelous invention would happen before tea-time. Humans were exhaustingly inventive. Just thinking about it made Crowley want to take a nap, but now was not the time. 

Flipping the book back and forth in his hands, Crowley debated with himself. In the car, Aziraphale said there was one book in particular with information about the Apocalypse, but hadn’t said which one. A somehow more illuminating copy of Revelations? Nostradamus? Mother Shipton? 

Crowley sighed. Best to take it all. 

With another snap of his fingers, he conjured up a carpet bag formerly part of his Nanny Ashtoreth ensemble, and with a turn of his wrist, collected every single book in the building into the improbably large interior of the carpet bag (he also accidentally collected a popular science magazine and some very important legal briefs from the briefcase of a passing pedestrian, much to the woman's later dismay). 

Satisfied, Crowley briefly surveyed the empty shelves. Dust swirled golden in the strangely empty space, lifting off of long-undisturbed bookshelves. Long overburdened shelves creaked and sighed in relief. _The world must be ending,_ he thought, _if Aziraphale’s bookshop is empty._ With that melancholy notion, he turned and sauntered out of the shop with the miraculously light carpet bag clutched in one hand, closing and locking the doors behind himself with a snap. 

As Crowley walked out onto the street and turned the corner to head back towards the Bentley, he blessed under his breath as he saw the shambling figure of Sergeant Shadwell standing in front of Aziraphale. They didn’t appear to be strangers. Crowley narrowed his eyes in suspicion, and sauntered over as casually as he could manage, doing his best to convey nonchalance through the movement of his hips and failing quite spectacularly. 

Crowley fell into place beside Aziraphale. “Afternoon, sergeant,” he said, nodding at Shadwell in the manner of covert operatives everywhere. 

“Oh!“ Shadwell said, startling back into a more acceptable range of personal space. His eyes widened as he looked between the two of them. “Ye two ken each other, then?” he asked, eyebrows lowering. As a professional Recognizer of Things that are Afoot, he was now absolutely certain that things were, indeed, afoot. 

“Yes, well, in a certain sense,” Aziraphale said. “You two know each other?” he asked, looking between Crowley and Shadwell. 

“Him an’ his father before him,” Shadwell said. 

“His father?” Aziraphale said. “Surely you don’t mean-”

Crowley coughed. “We’ve- associated. Over the years.” 

“Hmm,” Shadwell said. He was not by nature a good detective, but he was exceedingly suspicious. To find out that the two greatest sources of funding for the Witchfinder Army, besides the per-witch commission he would earn if he ever caught any genuine witches, seemed to be in cahoots? 

“How did ye say ye two ken each other, then?” he asked, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. 

“We didn’t,” Crowley said. “Now, sorry to bother, but we're in a rush. Come on, angel." 

“Angel, eh?" Shadwell said, crossing the arms of his shabby jacket with the skeptical air of a professional. Sounded like they knew each other _quite_ well, then. There was something fishy here besides the smell of his jacket, even if it wasn’t witchcraft. He peered closer at Aziraphale’s chest, trying to discern the outline of any extra nipples.

Aziraphale took a step backwards, delicately laying a protective hand over his own chest. 

“What're ye up to?" Shadwell said. "Onna such a fine Saturday? Not performin’ any occult rituals, are we?”

“Only the usual," replied Crowley over his shoulder, already walking away. He stepped once again into the street, rounded the car, and slid back into the driver’s seat. 

Shadwell continued his advance, voice increasing to thunderous rage, spitting as he yelled in Aziraphale’s face. “Not swindlin’ an honest member of the Witchfinder Army into doin’ your evil biddin’, are we? Not schemin’ and skinnivin’ to make good decent folk do the bidding of the dark masters, are we?” 

Aziraphale remained standing on the sidewalk, petrified by indecision. He had to prevent Crowley from leaving and find out what he’d done in the bookshop, but there was also the more immediate matter of Shadwell advancing with his accusing finger raised. 

“Always kenned there was something fishy about ye. I've been at it long enough tah know when someone's up to No Good,” Shadwell growled, shaking his finger for emphasis. “And yer up to No Good, yessiree, I can tell ye that.”

Aziraphale stepped backwards until his back was pressed against the shiny black siding of the Bentley, trying to placate Shadwell with a weak smile. His left hand grasped at the handle, seeking any route for escape. 

He had enough raw power to obliterate Shadwell off the face of the planet, of course. But it seemed so _impolite_. 

“I order ye to cease yer evil ways,” Shadwell thundered. He was on a roll, and feeling rather pleased with himself. He always enjoyed battling evil-doers, particularly by yelling at them in a very public setting. “What is it now? Conspiracy? Seducin’ our women? Turnin' innocent folk into _newts_?” 

"I rather think you're overreacting," Aziraphale said. "But- yes. Urgent business to attend to. Really must be going."

Aziraphale’s fingers finally closed around the silver door handle. He quickly slid inside the car and settled himself in the passenger’s seat, locking the recently installed child safety locks. Through the windowpane, he looked nervously up at Shadwell, who was still advancing on the car with a thunderous expression and seemed on the verge of apoplexy, which would be inconvenient for everyone involved. 

In the driver's seat, Crowley smirked. Looked like Aziraphale would be coming with him after all. He put the car in gear. 

Shadwell stepped forward, pointing accusingly at the pair of them through the closed car window with a dramatically extended pointer finger. “By the power invested in me by the Witchfinder's Army, I charge ye to display yer nipples and depart from this place, if an evil-doer you may be-”

Crowley’s smirk shifted to a feral grin, and the Bentley accelerated to 120 miles per hour— a world-record speed for a car from the 1920s. Fortunately, no one would have to go through the trouble of verifying the record, since the world would end before anyone would bother filling out the appropriate paperwork. 

Aziraphale was thrown back against the seat by the sudden acceleration, frantically gripping at the door. "Crowley!" he screeched. "I thought we were past this! Where are we going now?" 

"I told you," Crowley said. "Alpha Centauri. Now hush a moment, I've got to concentrate.” 

He contemplated the contents of his spartan apartment. The furniture wouldn't be necessary where they were going, but all the same, he summoned a few very confused and frightened house plants into the back seat, and with one more thought, added the Mona Lisa sketch. 

Behind them, Shadwell was staring at the empty space left by the Bentley in amazement, then looking at his own finger, which had just sent a car driving away so quickly that he believed he'd banished it from existence. He began to stumble home to Madame Tracy. 

*** * ***

Crowley careened through the streets of London, wheeling around corners at alarming angles. He drove like all the forces of heaven and hell were in pursuit, and perhaps they were. Aziraphale, in the passenger’s seat, was clutching to the door for dear life, resisting the urge to screw his eyes shut. He found Crowley’s driving alarming under the best of circumstances, and Armageddon was not the best of circumstances by the standards of any reasonable person. 

“Stop the car,” Aziraphale said, wincing as Crowley swerved into the opposite side of the road to pass a slow-moving delivery truck. 

“Rather not,” Crowley said. Horns blared behind them as he swerved back into the left lane and slammed back down on the accelerator. 

They needed to leave the planet. But planets are notoriously resistant to the concept of people leaving them, inventing gravity and atmospheres for the purpose of keeping their occupants safe, breathing, and very much with their feet on the ground. Like rebellious teenagers, humans had made great progress in escaping their home planet (while leaving all their garbage strewn about the place), but they still returned to the safety of the motherworld. Crowley intended to crank his middle finger at the whole business: Earth, Heaven, and Hell. 

“I’m not bluffing,” Aziraphale said. Closing his eyes, he concentrated a moment. 

Stopping or dismantling the car would likely discorporate them both, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more creative options available. After a few moments of focus, he opened his eyes to watch with satisfaction as a parade of little old ladies with canes and mothers pushing infants in strollers walked across a crosswalk, forming a thick barrier of innocents across the entire width of the street in front of them. 

“Really?” Crowley asked, pressing harder on the accelerator as they drew within a hundred feet of the sudden and improbable swarm of pedestrians. 

“You’re not playing fair, either,” Aziraphale said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Crowley grit his teeth, and just as Aziraphale was really getting nervous, the car leapt into the air like a salmon jumping upstream, soaring over the heads of the amazed humans, who weren’t quite sure why they were crossing the street in the first place, and were even more astonished to discover that flying cars had been invented. 

On the other side of the crosswalk, the Bentley slammed back into the ground, swerving briefly before Crowley regained control. The tires screeched and the transmission complained, but Crowley hadn’t spent eighty years exquisitely maintaining his car just to have it fall apart with a little bit of easy flying. 

“Nice try,” Crowley said.

The Bentley hugged the curves of Fleet Street, heading through the heart of the city. Crowley looked up to see the landmark of Tower Bridge through the gaps in the buildings. He grinned, and skidded around the corner, tires screeching. A plan was beginning to form. He’d always had a talent for improvisation under pressure.

“If you don’t stop, I’ll be forced to take drastic measures,” Aziraphale warned, watching as they whipped past buildings in London’s heart. 

“Do your worst,” Crowley retorted, and continued driving. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes again and focused on the internal mechanisms of the car. He found the gas tank, but couldn’t sense the petrol, possibly because the entire body of the car was positively blazing with a distracting layer of love. Undeterred, he imagined all the petrol vanishing from the Bentley’s tank and refilling the tanks of nearby cars, rather than let it go to waste. Satisfied with his sabotage, he opened his eyes and stared at the speedometer, which remained stubbornly constant at 90 mph no matter how long he waited. 

“That should have worked,” he said. He frowned down at the dashboard of the still-moving car. 

“What?” Crowley asked, looking around at the components of his car to make sure nothing had been replaced. “What did you do?” 

“Got rid of all your petrol,” Aziraphale answered, confused. “Or, at least, I tried to.” 

“Oh,” Crowley said, relaxing. “I never both with all that.” 

“You never bother with _petrol?”_ Aziraphale asked. “In your _car_?” 

Crowley shrugged. They were now on the A100, barreling past the Tower of London towards Tower Bridge. 

“Look, my dear, this really has to stop now,” Aziraphale said, with the pompous tone of a university professor in an old movie. “Let’s see if this will convince you.” 

With a gesture, the bridge cleared of cars, and the middle section of the bridge began to raise, as if accommodating for a passing ship underneath. The cars surrounding the Bentley screeched to a halt, their drivers swearing and slamming on the brakes, and the Bentley also rolled to a stop, blocked in by a Peugeot and a lorry. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “What do you say to that?” He relaxed back into his seat, content to be stuck in traffic if it meant Crowley was no longer leaving the planet. 

Crowley turned, then grinned, very slowly. His grins could be described as snake-like on a normal day, but on this particular occasion, his smile was positively bristling with the sharpened points of too many teeth. 

“Thanks,” Crowley said. “I was about to do that.” 

Edging around the Peugeot in the narrow shoulder lane, Crowley drove to the front of the line of cars, stopped in confusion after the bridge raising. He stopped at the front of the pack, just before the actual bridge began. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, looking at the road before them with trepidation. “What are you doing?” 

Ahead of them, the mechanisms that raised the bridge locked into the highest raised position with a _clank_ , leaving the central part of the bridge pavement pointing towards the sky. Crowley gripped the steering wheel with both hands, eyes fixed out the front windshield. 

Crowley began muttering under his breath, voice steadily increasing in volume as he spoke. “Listen up, gravity,” he said. “I know everyone else on this planet just calmly accepts you, but you listen to me. I don’t believe in you, never have, really. That’s why I’ve got wings. And you think you’re all-powerful? Well, let me tell you, you know nothing about all-powerful beings, and I’ve already rejected the big boss upstairs. You think I care about you? Pah. You’re nothing, gravity. Nothing.” 

“You can’t possibly be trying to-” Aziraphale began to say.

Crowley floored it. 

Aziraphale shrieked. 

The Bentley accelerated down the short runway and screamed its way up the inclined part of the bridge, roaring off the edge, and for a moment, the car seemed suspended in space. The tourist onlookers gasped behind their raised phones, huddling together. 

Then the car started to plummet towards the river below. But, as everyone knows, the secret to flying is to fall towards the ground-- and miss. The Bentley seemed to jerk in midair as an offended gravity shrugged its massive shoulders, hurt by Crowley’s commentary or perhaps bored with the whole enterprise, and launched the car skywards between the decorative walkways connecting the two towers. The car hurtled into the air almost faster than the eye could track, soon becoming a black speck no larger than one of the birds flying over the city. 

In the crowd of tourists viewing the bridge from the riverside, an enthusiastic American toddler tugged at the hem of her mother’s coat. “Mom, didya see that? That was so cool!” she said. 

“Hmm, yeah,” the mother said. Turning to an astounded policewoman standing nearby, she asked, “Do they have that show every day?” 

“Not exactly,” the policewoman answered faintly, before turning to amble away. She’d seen quite enough for today. A cup of tea would help the world make sense again. 

Far above the city, Crowley was determinedly driving upwards through the layers of the atmosphere. The plants and carpet bag of books thudded against the back window of the Bentley. The speed gauge was maxed out, the wheels spinning idly. Crowley grit his teeth, hissing as the pressure and heat around the car steadily increased. The entire frame was shaking, g-forces pressing back on Crowley and Aziraphale’s corporeal bodies as the car accelerated into the atmosphere. 

The jostling turned the stereo on, and the grinding guitar intro of “I’m in love with my car” filled the Bentley, made discordant by the shaking of the car. Crowley pushed the vehicle forward into the upper atmosphere. Aziraphale, white-knuckle gripping the door, had given up on protesting.

Spacecraft must be carefully designed to withstand the harsh conditions of endless black vacuum. Every possible chemical reaction, every shift of weight, every additional piece of cargo, and every drop of fuel must be thoroughly considered. Even the slightest variation or miscalculation can lead to catastrophe in such an extreme environment. 

A 1926 Bentley without any petrol in its engines was certainly not an appropriate spacecraft. The body of the car would not withstand the heat and pressure of the launch into space through the Earth's atmosphere, and the vehicle was neither airtight nor capable of sustaining life in a vacuum. 

Fortunately, Crowley knew none of this. He suspected it might be the case, but he'd also seen a rerun of _Spaceballs_ on late-night television, and he thought his Bentley was certainly more suited to the task of space flight than a Winnebago. Plus, Crowley had the decided advantage of not needing to breathe and possessing a very thorough imagination. 

So the Bentley roared through the atmosphere, igniting and crumpling but remaining mostly car-shaped. The car screeched through the air, and Crowley hissed at the feeling of immense heat and pressure melding him to the car seat. 

“C-c-crow-ley,” Aziraphale said, his teeth chattering together as he tried to talk. With tremendous effort, he looked out the window and gasped as he caught a glimpse of the surface of the earth far below, before a sudden jolt sent his head slamming into the window. He fainted dead away, slumping back into the seat. 

They reached the upper atmosphere, the plants and carpet bag in the backseat beginning to float. Crowley unglued himself from the seat and shook out his face, feeling oddly stretched. 

He turned to look out the window, giving a jaunty wave to the flabbergasted astronaut staring out the window of the passing International Space Station. Then, he hit the gas pedal. 

The vehicle burst into the vacuum of space, the exterior flames dying as all traces of external oxygen to fuel the fire was removed. Crowley glared at the dashboard until the dents popped out of the siding and the paint restored itself to the usual glossy black. 

They sat for a moment, pushing slowly forward with lingering momentum without friction to stop their progress. Gravity continued to ignore them. 

Crowley stared out the front windshield, taking in the endless field of stars ahead of them. He remembered forming those constellations in the palms of his hands, but human light pollution obscured all but the very brightest stars, especially in London. He had missed the cold beauty of the Milky Way splashed out across the sky like a stroke of glittering paint down the center of the universe.

He focused on Mars, a tiny red dot in the distance, barely visible even to his superhuman eyesight. Slowly, the Bentley began to speed up. Crowley had no idea how fast spacecraft could travel, but as ever, he expected his vehicle to make good time. 

They should be as far as possible from the Earth when it blew. The final battle between Heaven and Hell would take place on many dimensions, but earth would burn as it served as the staging ground for the end of all things. Crowley shuddered at the thought. 

“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” Crowley said, but received no reply. He looked over at Aziraphale, only to find the angel slumped in his seat. 

“Angel?” he asked, reaching out a hesitant hand to hover over the angel’s shoulder, afraid of stepping too far. 

Aziraphale snuffled out a small snore, snuggling back into his seat. 

Well. That was all right, then. He pointed his car at Alpha Centauri, accidentally ensuring that the Hubble Space Telescope captured some very strange images that the technicians would be forced to attribute to a baffling prank. 

Crowley drove forward into the universe, stars reflecting in the panes of his sunglasses.

*** * ***

Aziraphale woke up sitting in a very familiar car seat, staring out the front window of the Bentley as the colorful gaseous chaos of Jupiter rotated slowly in space ahead. He pressed his eyes closed, in the hopes that the sight in front of him might make more sense when he reopened them, but the view remained resolutely the same. The swirling planet hardly seemed real, vibrant against the background of countless multitudes of stars. He sat up, looking around. 

“Ah, you’re awake,” Crowley said from the driver’s seat. “Uh. Sorry about that.” 

“Crowley-” Aziraphale said, looking around wildly. A leaf from one of the plants tucked in the back of the car tickled his head, and he whipped around. Except for one lonely carpet bag and a painting tucked against the seat, the back of the car was completely filled with verdant greenery. 

“Wha- where- what the devil is going on!” Aziraphale spluttered indignantly. 

“Ahh, come on, don’t bring him into this,” Crowley said. “We’ve only just left Armageddon.” 

“Armageddon! Oh, heavens!! I was about to put in a call upstairs when you-- when you-- _absconded_ with me!” 

“Absconded? Come on, Angel,” Crowley drawled. “You were the one that got in the car.” 

“To stop _you_ from leaving in a fit of cowardice!”

“If you say so,” Crowley said. “Look, I said I was sorry. Now can we get on with it? Long ride to Alpha Centauri.”

“Yes, that’s another thing,” Aziraphale said. “Why are we in your car? We’re in _space_!”

“Well, I wasn’t going to leave it behind, now was I?” 

“And my books?” Aziraphale said. “You expect me to just leave them behind?”

Crowley flicked his head back over his shoulder, indicating the carpet bag nestled amongst the plants in the back seat. “In the bag,” he placated. 

Aziraphale glared back at the rather small bag with suspicion. “All of them?”

“It’s bigger on the inside,” Crowley said. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “That’s all right then. But you still can’t go around launching cars into space, especially with unwilling passengers. It’s completely unacceptable!!” 

_“It's completely unacceptable._ ” repeated Crowley mockingly under his breath, lip curling. 

“Crowley!!” Aziraphale said, plaintive, as he bounced his fists against his legs in ineffective frustration. “This isn't funny!! Take me back this instant.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“Earth's done for,” Crowley said, his hands tightening on the wheel. “Big war then _whoosh_ , no more humanity. Had to go, angel.”

“Which is why I needed to speak with the Almighty! So She would have a chance to set things right.”

Crowley scoffed. “You honestly still believe that, Aziraphale? Still believe she's watching over us? She's gone. Has been for a while.”

“Well, obviously I still believe in Her. I'm an angel,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley sighed. “That you are.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Aziraphale stared at Crowley. Crowley stared resolutely at the stars out the front window, for all appearances giving the path ahead much more attention than he had ever paid to earthly motorists, pedestrians, and traffic laws. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley ignored him. If snakes had sweat glands, nervous sweat would be beading on his brow, but as they don’t, he wasn’t nervous or sweating, thank you very much. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, louder. 

“What.”

“ _Crowley_.”

“ _WHAT_?” Crowley yelled, finally turning to look at the angel, who was doing his very best impression of a kicked puppy, pouting lip and all. “Oh, for fuck's sake, angel. Don't look at me like that.”

“Crowley, please turn the car around.”

“No!!”

“Crowley. Turn around this instant.”

“No!! Look, uh, are you planning on annoying me into taking you back?”

“Is it working?”

Crowley spluttered. “A-absolutely not!! Absolutely not. We're leaving, angel. Gone already, actually.”

“Very well. Then I will be flying back to earth,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley paused a moment, struck by the unpleasant possibility of watching Aziraphale fly away from him, after all the trouble of getting both of them into space in the first place. 

“Please don’t,” he said. 

“Are you going to stop me?” 

“No! No. Fine,” Crowley said. “If you really want to go, fine. By all means, throw any chance at survival out the window. See if I care.” 

“Right,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll just… be going, then.” 

They paused, staring at each other. Neither moved. 

“Well?” Crowley demanded after a moment. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began, carefully. “I know you’re scared. And don’t think we won’t be having a _long_ discussion about this whole fleeing-to-space business.” 

Crowley shrunk down in his seat. 

Aziraphale took a steadying breath that he didn’t, strictly speaking, need. “Would you please come back with me?” Aziraphale said. “Because, well, it’ll be no good without you.” 

“Aw, come on, don’t- urgh.” Crowley said. “It's too late. Besides, Alpha Centauri's lovely this time of year.”

Aziraphale gave him a thoroughly unimpressed Look. “Yes, but humanity's not on Alpha Centauri, are they?” he asked. “Weren’t you the one trying to convince me of Earth’s merits? Lovely little restaurants where they know you?” 

“That was before we knew we lost the Antichrist!” Crowley said, throwing his hands in the air and slumping back in his seat, finally giving up the pretense of needing to drive the Bentley as it propelled itself through space unimpeded by friction or gravity. The wheels of the car still turned, but that was more out of the habit of Crowley's imagination than mechanical necessity. 

He snuck a side-eyed look at Aziraphale. “You’re not leaving,” he said. 

“No,” Aziraphale agreed. “Not until you agree to come back with me.”

Crowley turned sideways in his seat to face Aziraphale, reaching up to wrench the sunglasses off his own face. His narrow pupils were blown wide, and his sunglasses’ frames shook in his right hand, propped against the dashboard. 

“My dear…” Aziraphale said, noticing the trailing off as the words failed to materialize. 

“I can't-” Crowley choked out, “I can't lose this.”

“What, the Bentley? I thought you were bringing it with you?”

“Not the bloody car,” Crowley said. “I meant… this. Us. You. You know. Uh.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, soft and pleased. “Well then. You won't lose me. But we _do_ need to go back.”

“Of course we do,” Crowley said, tone resigned. He put his sunglasses back on and turned back to stare out the front window. Aziraphale watched him for a moment. The turbulent surface of Jupiter loomed large in the front windshield, then passed underneath the Bentley's wheels. They were coming inexorably closer to the rocky edge of the solar system. 

“Well?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Well, what?” Crowley said. 

“Weren’t you, ah, going to turn the car around?” 

“I'm sorry, angel,” Crowley said, reaching up to grip the steering wheel. “It’s for the best.” 

Aziraphale harrumphed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I sincerely doubt that.”

The Bentley glided on through space, propelled by Crowley's imagination. 

*** * ***

Angel and demon continued floating in silence for a few hundred million miles, which passed suspiciously quickly beneath the idly rotating wheels of the Bentley. Crowley, although he’d been involved in the creation of the stars, really had no idea how far apart the planets were from each other. He’d been more focused on the artistry than the logistics. 

Besides, Saturn and Jupiter looked close enough on the models that schoolchildren used, similar to the distance between Ohio and Illinois on a map of the United States (not that Crowley knew anything about the United States, by design). One planet over, one state between them-- how long could it possibly take to get there?

Most rocket scientists would be surprised to learn that the fastest man-made vehicle of all time was actually a 1926 Bentley exploring sections of the solar system unreached by humans, but after all the strange events of the end times-- the kraken, Atlantis, the Tibetans, and the aliens bringing a message of goodwill and harmony-- perhaps they’d simply throw up their hands and accept it. 

As the rings of Saturn became visible in the distance about an hour later, Aziraphale broke the stubborn silence with a question. “Crowley, you did say you grabbed every book in the shop, didn’t you?” 

“Yeah,” he answered. “Ought to have been.” 

“And they’re all in the carpet bag?” Aziraphale asked, turning to look at the back of the car. The plants, painting, and carpet bag were nestled in the back seat. He frowned, looking down at his own body fully settled in the seat below him, then looked up at the plants, which were decidedly not floating. “Speaking of which, why isn’t everything floating?” 

“Gravity?” Crowley answered. 

“We’re in _space,_ Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “We’re beyond the reach of gravity.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Right. I forgot about that.” 

As he ceased to believe that everything in the car would remain settled in place, the angel, the demon, and their respective belongings everything in the car rose up into midair. Crowley and Aziraphale hovered slightly above their seats. The plants, jostled by the slight motion of the car, rustled their leaves as they collided with the ceiling. 

“That feels rather strange,” Aziraphale said, testing out the sensation of weightlessness. It made his stomach swoop. 

“Sorry,” Crowley said. He kept a firm grip on the steering wheel, trying to keep his bony hips in place in the seat. “I could imagine gravity works again, if you’d like,” he said, as his head gently thumped against the ceiling. “Might be more difficult now that you’ve reminded me, but I could give it a go.”

“Don’t bother,” Aziraphale answered, reaching back to snag the floating carpet bag out of the back of the car and drawing it into his lap. He looked contemplatively down at the bag for a moment, before looking up at Crowley. 

“Why did you bother?” Aziraphale asked. 

“With what?” 

“The books.” 

“You said you wouldn’t come without them,” Crowley said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the universe. 

“No, I said I wouldn’t come because one of the books yielded information that could help the Heavenly Hosts avert this whole Apocalypse business,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “What part of _the planet is ending in an inevitable rain of fire_ don’t you understand?” 

Aziraphale turned towards him, eyes lighting up. “That’s just it,” he said. “The planet doesn’t have to end. If I can just get through to upstairs-”

“Oh, not this again,” Crowley said. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, admonishing. “Just because you don’t believe in Her doesn’t mean She won’t intervene.” 

“If She wanted to intervene, She would have done it already,” Crowley said. “She’s, well. Her.” 

“You don’t know that.”

“I _do_ know that, Aziraphale!” Crowley said. “I do know that.” 

“How is it that you _know_ that?” Aziraphale asked, voice contemptuous like someone had come into his bookstore and offered an entirely heterosexual interpretation of the meaning of a Wilde novel. 

“I just know, alright? I can feel it in my… wherever it is people feel things. Bones. Stomach. Wherever,” Crowley said, gesturing vaguely at his body. “Look, the point is, talking to upstairs won’t help.” 

Aziraphale sighed, stretching out his floating legs. He’d never liked road trips, although they’d certainly improved since humans invented cars. “Do you remember the girl you struck with your car?” he asked. 

“She hit _me_ ,” Crowley replied automatically. 

“The point _is_ , she was carrying an extremely rare and very accurate book of prophecy. You wouldn’t happen to have seen a book by Agnes Nutter, did you?” 

Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale reached his entire arm down into the bag in his lap, feeling around the haphazard stacks of books. His fingers scraped at the leather binding of the familiar volume. 

Unable to pull the book out, he dove face-first into the carpet bag, sticking his entire head and torso into the opening. He looked around in the darkness, then spotted his prize, and grabbed the hefty volume. He tried to wiggle back upwards, and found his shoulders unfortunately jammed. 

“Crowley?” he called, his voice muffled by the brocade fabric. 

Aziraphale felt a hand clamp around the back of his jacket and steadily pull him up and out of the bag. Once he settled back into the seat, or floating just above it, Aziraphale settled the precious cargo of the carpet bag floating in the air just ahead of him, opened the book in his lap, and turned to smile softly at Crowley. “Thank you,” he said. 

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley snapped. “What’s the book say, then?” 

Aziraphale flipped through the pages. “It contained clues which have allowed me to determine the current location of the genuine Antichrist,” he said. 

“What?” Crowley asked, whipping his head around to stare at Aziraphale, which caused his body to start slowly rotating sideways until he corrected himself back upright. “You _knew_ where he was all along?”

“Not _all_ along,” Aziraphale said. “Now. It’s an entirely accurate book of prophecy, the only volume in existence, so logically, if I read the last few entries-” 

“You knew where he was and you didn’t _tell me_?” Crowley continued, talking over him. 

Aziraphale looked up at him, sharply. “I would remind you that you effectively kidnapped me a few hours ago,” he said. “Let’s not debate about who has the moral high ground here. And I _did_ try to mention it earlier, but as I recall, you didn't allow me enough time to tell you.” 

“It hardly counts as kidnapping,” Crowley protested. “But back to the point. Where’s the boy? The Antichrist?” 

Aziraphale fixed him with a withering look, then turned back to the _Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ , opening the volume with painstaking consideration for the old leather binding. He began to gently page through the book, eyes scanning the prophecies accurately describing hundreds of years of human history in Agnes’ signature style. 

“He’s in a little village called Tadfield,” Aziraphale said. “Tadfield 666, in fact.” 

Crowley scoffed. “Really?” 

“I didn’t arrange it that way,” Aziraphale said. “Anyway, that’s what I wanted to tell the Almighty: I’ve located the Antichrist. She can send forces to, ah, deal with him. Appropriately. Avert the war before it begins. But I wonder, if I skip to the end-” 

He reached the last few pages of the book, peering down at the spindly type-set and old-fashioned spelling. He pulled his small round glasses out of his pocket and began to read. 

Crowley’s eyebrows raised. “You want to send a squad of angels to murder a child?” he asked. “Satan, I can’t believe we’re discussing this while you’re wearing those glasses. What century are they from, angel?” 

Aziraphale bristled. “They’re nifty!” he declared. “Now if you _don’t_ mind, I’m trying to avert the Apocalypse.” 

He returned his attention to the book in his lap. After a few moments, Aziraphale gasped. 

“What?” Crowley said. 

“Listen to this,” Aziraphale said, beginning to read aloud. “ _When the skies are crimson seen, then ye both must stand between the world of life and the world of war, where the iron bird lands no more._ Crowley, I do believe she’s talking about us!” 

Crowley looked out the front windshield, avoiding Aziraphale’s intense gaze. “Nah,” he said. “Can’t be.” 

“Oh, why not?” Aziraphale said. “Ye both, standing between life and war? Who else might she be referring to?” 

“Anyone, really,” Crowley said, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “Abbott and Costello. Laurel and Hardy. Sonny and Cher. The Antichrist and one of his friends. No reason to believe it might be us.” 

“But it _could_ be us, Crowley,” he said. “It could be. And what if it is supposed to be us, and we’re not there?” 

Crowley sniffed. “Then it’s a pretty shite book of prophecy, isn’t it?”

“Oh- that’s not- please, would you just turn the car around?” Aziraphale said, looking out into the endless black void dotted by stars which surrounded them on all sides. 

“I can’t,” Crowley hissed. “Too risssky, angel.” 

“Too risky? Attempting to save all of humanity is too risky? Well, what about-- art galleries and- rivers- and children! Flowers and vineyards and theater. All the lovely little human things. Don’t you think it’s worth it to try and save all that?” he asked, cheeks flushing a lovely cherubic red as he thought about all the things he loved on earth. 

“Angel. Listing all the stuff on Earth- that isn’t going to change my mind. It’s just… stuff,” Crowley said, waving away the lovely images conjured by Aziraphale’s imagination with a dismissive hand. “Besides, even if they do survive the Apocalypse, they’re well on their way to destroying everything on their own.” 

“Weren’t you the one trying to convince me earlier?” Aziraphale asked. “Why the change of heart?” 

Crowley shifted uncomfortably. “Tried to change things,” he said. “Tried to raise the Antichrist. Great job we did there. No, angel, it’s too late. What’s the use? ‘Sides, everything I need is already in this car.” 

“What?” 

“What?” 

“Do you really… my dear. Everything you need is in this car?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Uh,” Crowley said, shrinking in his seat as best he could while floating above it. 

“Well then,” Aziraphale said with a small, benevolent smile. 

“Oh, don’t start.” 

Aziraphale’s voice turned serious, smile dropping from his face. “Crowley, there’s a real chance. I mean, a _real_ chance to save the planet. I’m going back whether you’re coming with me or not.” 

Crowley squirmed in his seat, still avoiding Aziraphale’s eyes. 

“Please, Crowley. I _know_ you can be brave. I _know_ you can make the right choice.” 

“Not sure about that, angel,” Crowley said. 

“Whyever not?” 

“I’m a demon!” Crowley said, gesturing expansively at his whole lanky being. “I always make the wrong choice. It’s what I _am,_ Aziraphale, how many times do I have to tell you that?” 

Aziraphale paused a moment, considering. “Crowley,” he said. “How long have we known each other?” 

“Six-thousand years, give or take?” Crowley said. “You know that.” 

“I do,” Aziraphale said. “I know that _like I know you,_ Crowley. And I’ve never known you to be capable of genuine evil.” 

Crowley scoffed. “Just kidnapped you, didn’t I?” 

“Oh, hardly,” Aziraphale said. “Not that I’m at all pleased about this turn of events, and, as I said, we _will_ be discussing it later in great detail. But you were, I believe, trying to save my life. Weren’t you?” 

Crowley simply hummed.

“Don’t dismiss this, dear boy,” Aziraphale said. “You love the Earth as much as I do.” 

“Demon,” Crowley said. 

“Oh, stop bringing that up, you know as well as I do that it’s a deflection. It’s never bothered me that you’re a demon, not really, not since Rome. I don’t _care_!” Aziraphale said. “Look, if you go to Alpha Centauri, I’ll never speak to you again. I’ll never see you again. And within a century, you’ll be incredibly bored all by yourself, we both know that to be true. Now take this car back to Earth right this instant, or so help me God, I will turn it around myself.” 

“I’m perfectly fine on my own,” Crowley protested. 

“Then why did you insist on taking me with you when you fled?” Aziraphale asked, raising a pointed eyebrow. 

“Because I didn’t want you to die!” Crowley said. 

“And I don’t want the earth to die! I don’t believe you do either, with how hard you fought to convince me to avert the Apocalypse eleven years ago. Think of it. All the humans, gone. If we don’t go back, the entire planet will burn in the ensuing war!” Aziraphale said. “But if we turn around, right now, and head back, they may have a fighting chance. Or a chance not to fight at all!” 

“You really think we can make a difference?” Crowley asked, voice acerbic and bitter. 

“Yes!” Aziraphale exclaimed. 

“Why?” Crowley asked. 

“Because- prophecy!” Aziraphale said. 

“Come on,” Crowley said. “We both know books of prophecy are notoriously unreliable.”

“Not this one,” Aziraphale said. 

“It’s not enough,” Crowley said, shaking his head. “I won’t risk it.”

“I have to go back,” Aziraphale said. “I cannot believe that this is the end that the Almighty has in mind. I absolutely refuse to believe that, no matter what the other angels says.” 

“Ahh. There it is,” Crowley said. “That’s what this is really about. You still have faith in the Almighty, that she’s somehow got a benevolent plan for the universe.” 

“Well, obviously,” Aziraphale said, “As you keep reminding me, I _am_ an angel!” 

“We’re going in circles,” Crowley said, slumping back in his seat as he floated gently downwards like a cartoon character being pulled back down to earth after a daydream sequence. Through the windshield, Saturn was rapidly growing, the bands of swirling tan gas becoming distinct. 

“Look,” Aziraphale said. “It comes down to this. I am leaving, right now, either to stop the war or fight it, because I still have faith in the worth of humanity, if nothing else. You can either come with me, or continue on your own, but either way, you will lose me. You will never see me again. You may never see any living being again-- human, celestial, or infernal-- besides your plants, depending on how the war goes. If you don’t turn this car back now, you’re accepting an eternity on your own. Entirely alone, Crowley!”

Crowley stared at him, stricken. 

Aziraphale raised both hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not asking you to believe in the Almighty. I won’t ask you to do that,” he said. “But I am… asking you to believe in me, I suppose. I’m asking you to trust me, which I realize might not come naturally to you, but surely we’ve known each other long enough to have a little faith-- or not faith, but some level of trust in each other, at the very least. I’m asking you, Crowley. Please. Can you trust me, just this once?” 

Crowley stayed quiet for a moment, grinding his teeth as he chewed over Aziraphale’s speech. “I do, you know,” he said after a moment. “Trust you. Don’t- don’t tell anyone I said that.” 

Aziraphale looked around at the black expanse of space surrounding them. “I don’t think anyone’s listening, my dear,” he said. 

“You never know,” Crowley said, gazing balefully at the radio where the forces of Hell had so often contacted him. 

“So?” Aziraphale asked, his brows rising as he waited. 

“...fine,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale deflated, righteous indignation melting out of him. “Really?” 

“Yes, really,” Crowley said.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Aziraphale said. 

“Goodness!?! Oi! This does _not_ make me a denizen of goodness,” Crowley said. “Still a demon, thank you very much.” 

“Not goodness, then,” Aziraphale placated. “Just- thank you. You’re making the right choice, my dear.” 

“Don’t make me any promises,” Crowley growled, but he grasped the wheel and began turning the car to the left. The steering wheel actually turned the car, simply because he believed it would, not because the wheels had any kind of traction against a driving surface. The floating plants knocked gently against the window. 

“Shit,” Crowley said. “Shit!!!! Shit. Okay. Shit. We’ve got a planet to save.” 

Aziraphale grinned, wide and brilliant. “I don’t know that the language is necessary, my dear,” he said. “But I agree wholeheartedly with the sentiment.” 

*** * ***

When Crowley turned the car around, Armageddon was scheduled to happen in fifty-five minutes. On Earth, Hastur was busy escaping from Crowley’s answering machine, to the detriment of an office of telemarketers. The M25 had transformed into a flaming, screaming odegra, as baffled police vehicles sat by the entrances. A concerned Shadwell was puttering along on Madame Tracy’s scooter, trapped in the London traffic jam. Rainforests were reclaiming the cities; the kraken was reclaiming the ocean. The voices of darkness were screaming in Adam Young’s head. The End was extremely Nigh. 

The four horsepersons of the Apocalypse were riding their motorcycles to the final destination, avoiding large piles of fish on the motorway (the Other Four Horsepersons of the Apocalypse, including Things Not Working Properly After You’ve Given Them A Good Thumping and Really Cool People, weren’t so lucky). 

Time was of the essence. 

“How far away are we?” Aziraphale asked, looking around curiously. Truth be told, space was rather monotonous after a while. You could only stare at the same set of stars for so long. 

“No clue,” Crowley said, gripping at the steering wheel. In fact, they were approximately a billion miles away from the planet Earth, which was rigged to blow. This fact would not have deterred Crowley. He was busy imagining. 

Living on Earth since the Creation gave Crowley a unique perspective on most movies. Most historical epics became comedies, as well-groomed, pouting Americans pretended to be various historical figures with hilarious levels of inaccuracy. Religious movies were also occasionally hilarious, when they didn’t remind him uncomfortably of his original home and subsequent saunter downwards. Best of all, however, were the science fiction and action movies-- the imagination of humanity unbridled, with heart-pumping music and a vision of the future reaching far into the stars. 

1926 Bentleys, as previously discussed, are not well-suited to space travel. The original designers of the car had envisioned trips of several dozen miles at speeds of perhaps 40 miles per hour, not trips across the space. Light-speed travel was not an added feature available from the factory, no matter how much money you were willing to pay (which might have had something to do with the fact that it isn’t physically possible, and also hadn’t been dreamed up just yet). 

Fortunately, Crowley’s imagination was not bound by the laws of physics, logic, or general common sense. He closed his eyes and envisioned Han Solo and Chewbacca in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon, Captain Kirk on the bridge of the USS-Enterprise, and James Bond at the wheel of his Aston Martin. Heroes aren’t confined by speed limits or physical distance-- they always arrive with style in the nick of time. 

Slowly, the Bentley began flying back towards Jupiter, accelerating by the second. Crowley reached down and pushed forward a lever that had suddenly appeared above the gear shift. He imagined the moment he had seen in so many films, when the heroes jump to hyperspace and the stars blur into white lines across the dashboard of their ships. As the lever clicked into forward position, the space around them stretched and warped until the stars became nothing but mesmerizing lines of light stretched out like ribbons. The Bentley rocketed through space, heading home. 

“My word,” Aziraphale said, bundling his carpet bag full of books safely against his chest, “Isn’t that pretty.” 

The light streamed by the car, which glided through hyperspace with the confident smoothness of German engineering. Crowley reached down and gave the dashboard a pat. You just couldn’t get this kind of performance from a modern car. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said after staring out into the blur of space for a mesmerizing minute. “One question.” 

“Hmm?” Crowley asked. The lights reflected in his sunglasses. He seemed hypnotized by the hyperspace surrounding them. 

“It’s really quite lovely,” Aziraphale said. “Only, how will you know when to stop?” 

“Ah, well,” Crowley said, and did not elaborate. “Uh.” 

“Only it occurs to me that if we were to fly into the Earth at lightspeed, that might lead to a rather unfortunate discorporation,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Mmmmm,” Crowley said. “That’s… yes. Fair point there.” 

“Do you think we perhaps ought to have some sort of navigational computer?” Aziraphale asked. “Crowley!”

“Right!” Crowley said. “Good idea. Yes.” 

He looked down at the dashboard of the Bentley, and the area below the cassette player began to expand and take on the form of a rectangular screen, illuminated with green light like the computer screens envisioned by humans in the 1980s. Once the navigator settled into its new form and realized it ought to begin navigating, two small dots appeared on the monitor, one static and the other blinking in and out of existence as it traveled rapidly up the screen. 

Aziraphale peered at the screen. “What does that mean, then?” he asked, watching the blinking dot move increasingly close to the static dot, animated in crude pixels. 

Leaning forward, Crowley narrowed his eyes, staring at the new addition to his car. “We’re the blinking dot,” he said. “Earth’s the other one.”

“Naturally,” Aziraphale said. 

The dot represented the Bentley drew closer to the dot representing the Earth on the etch-a-sketch sized screen. 

And closer. 

Closer. 

Very close. 

“I’m no expert in such matters,” Aziraphale said, “But at this rate, it looks like we’ll crash into the Earth in… about one minute?” 

“Looks that way, yeah,” Crowley said. 

They watched in silence another moment. 

“Do you think the brakes work in hyperspace?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t see how,” he said. “They’ve got to have friction in order to stop anything.” 

“Oh, right,” Crowley said. “Friction. Forgot about that one, too.” 

The dots were now an inch apart from each other on the screen, and the gap was closing fast. The streaming lights of hyperspace around them were beginning to look like the bars of a cage, trapping them in a crash course towards the earth. The car was forty seconds away from crashing into the Earth, and possibly straight through a good portion of it. 

“So how are you proposing we stop this car?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Well, if we can ignore gravity, I don’t see why we can’t ignore friction,” Crowley said after a moment. “Here goes nothing.” 

He envisioned the streaming light of hyperspace reaching an endpoint and streaming back into the fixed dots of stars. Taking a deep breath, he reached out his foot and tapped on the brake pedal. 

Instantly, the car dropped out of hyperspace with a shudder, and began to spin around wildly as if skidding on ice, trying to adjust to the massive loss of acceleration. The brakes groaned and stuttered before giving out entirely. Crowley grapsed for the steering wheel, trying to correct their course. The car rolled them upside down, and Aziraphale gasped as he caught a glimpse of the Earth in the windshield-- enormous, and covered in roiling storm-clouds. 

“Heavens,” he said, floating upside down. “That was close.” 

Crowley grit his teeth. Despite the massive reduction in speed, they were still plummeting Earth-wards, and he could feel the first tendrils of gravity reaching out to grasp at the car. His imagination had a tremendous amount of power, but at the end of the day, they were sitting in a hunk of metal burning through the sky, accelerating uncontrollably into the upper atmosphere as the entire car began shuddering with the stress of re-entry. 

“This is bloody idiotic,” Crowley said, his teeth chattering together. “Free and clear. We were free and clear, but no, have to go back and save humanity.”

Aziraphale reached out his hand to cover Crowley’s fist, clenched around the shaking clutch. 

“It’ll be alright, Crowley,” he said. 

Crowley pressed down his foot. The brake pedal hit the floor of the car, without any significant reduction in speed. Instead of an idyllic multicolored orb rotating in space, the Earth now looked like an enormous blurred landmass which seemed to be approaching rather quickly. He snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. A white-hot comet trail began to form behind the car, and the tires began to smolder and burn away. 

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale yelled over the suddenly deafening whistling of the wind. Atmospheres could be dreadfully inconvenient. 

“I think… I think I may have pissed off gravity, earlier,” Crowley yelled back as the Bentley continued to hurtle towards the ground. “We don’t seem to be slowing down!” 

“Oh, honestly,” Aziraphale said. 

He bundled the carpet bag with his books under one arm, effortlessly opened his car door despite the immense air pressure, and stepped out into nothingness.

“Angel!” Crowley yelped. 

Aziraphale, outside the car, grasped the top frame of the passenger’s side door firmly in both hands, took a steadying breath, and snapped open his wings. 

Several things should be noted by the reader at this point: 

  1. Normal beings in possession of wings, also known as birds, should be no means try to stop a car hurtling towards the earth at extremely high speeds, as the resulting strain may very well snap their wings off. 
  2. Angel wings do not necessarily obey the laws of physics, because they feel they ought not to be involved with anything associated with apples. That damned Isaac Newton.
  3. Aziraphale did not necessarily look like someone capable of carrying a car, and in the strictest human sense, he was not. But as he was not really human, merely a human-shaped being, and as appearances are notably deceiving, we shouldn’t hold him to our nonsensical standards. 



The Bentley’s descent slowed as Aziraphale pumped his powerful white wings, grimacing as he held the car in his hands. The car tilted sideways, with the frame of the passenger’s side door as the highest point. Crowley yelped as he slid down to thump against the driver’s side door. He looked down through the glass of the window beneath his shoulder at the surface of the Earth, still approaching too quickly for comfort, and blessed to himself. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley yelled up at the angel straining to hold the car above him. 

“What!!!” Aziraphale yelled back. 

“We’re over Morocco!” Crowley said. “Aim north!”

“It’s not,” Aziraphale grit out through his teeth. “As easy. As it looks.”

“Put your back into it!” Crowley said, and immediately regretted it. 

“ _Put my back into it??_ ” Aziraphale repeated, indignant. “Why don’t you get out and push, if you want us to go north!” 

Aziraphale glared down at him, wings straining. He was magnificent in the unfiltered sunlight of the upper atmosphere which glowed off the tips of his radiant white wings and haloed his head in a wreath of white light. He looked like the avenging angel of a thousand Renaissance portraits, and for a moment, he took Crowley’s breath away. 

“Oh, all right,” Crowley grumbled, collecting himself. He crawled his way up over the passenger’s seat to the open door and pushing up into the air next to Aziraphale, wings unfurling as he launched himself out of the car. He flapped a few times, gliding towards the back of the burning car, then pushed his shoulder into the back bumper of the Bentley, shoving the car forwards. 

The metal was white-hot underneath his hands, and the flaming comet trail behind the car immediately covered Crowley head-to-toe in a thick layer of grimy smoke and smoot. He ground his teeth and held on. Working in tandem, they maneuvered the car through the air. Aziraphale slowed their descent, and Crowley pushed them forwards into a gentler, angled dive. 

The plants, terrified of impact damage to their leaves and the flames surrounding them, huddled together against the window, shaking harder than ever before. They longed for the simple days in Crowley’s flat, where they had faced the constant threat of death by garbage disposal, but at least had been safe from this insanity. 

“Over France now!!” Crowley yelled, tongue flicking out to taste the air. Wine, cheese, and cigarettes. Definitely France. 

“Good!” Aziraphale replied. “Could you recognize Tadfield from the air, do you think?” 

“How the Heaven am I supposed to do that?” Crowley yelled. The Earth was covered in a swirling mass of storm-clouds foreshadowing the impending Apocalypse. It was lucky they were crash-landing in Europe-- it would take a miracle to find England in this weather. 

“Haven’t the faintest!” Aziraphale shouted over the buffeting wind. “Do you have a map?” 

“A map?” Crowley yelled back up from behind the airborne car. “How’s a map going to help us find England through a bunch of bloody clouds?”

Aziraphale flapped his wings as the intense winds tore at his feathers. Even with divine strength, he could feel himself tiring. 

They had reached the layer of clouds. For a moment, the wheels of the Bentley skimmed over the tops of them, like the car was driving over the whorled formations, but then the wheels dipped into the fluffy mass. Navigating blindly, they dropped into a world of white and gray. Tiny water droplets condensed on Crowley’s glasses. 

For a moment, Aziraphale tucked his wings against his back, letting them glide down below the cloud layer. They burst out into the air below the cloud layer, and Aziraphale snapped his wings open again. 

“Where are we now?” Azirpahale yelled, readjusting his grip on the side frame of the car. 

“English channel!” Crowley said, eyeing the water below nervously. He was certainly not a water snake, and generally disapproved of the breed. Beaches were for suntanning, not swimming, as any demon knows (even amphibious demon creatures rather prefer bathing in lakes of sulfur).

Aziraphale, straining to support the frame of the car, tilted his head. Storm-clouds were blanketing all of England, but the epicentre of the storm seemed to be focused on one particular point, like an immense apocalyptic hurricane had gotten very lost and wandered over to this side of the Atlantic. The storm felt charged with immense power-- not just the power of the buffeting wind, but the power of something older and darker and with many voices. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted. “Aim for the center of the storm!” 

“You want to fly into that thing?” Crowley shouted back. 

“It’s the bloody Apocalypse!” Aziraphale replied. “Into the storm!” 

Their combined efforts steered the car straight towards the worst of the storm-clouds. The closer they got, the more they could sense the events of the Apocalypse-- the greasy corruption of Pollution, the starving wasteland envisioned by Famine, the insidious promises of glory projected by War. There was something else, though, being projected by someone equally powerful-- an overwhelming feeling of love and determination, felt with the sincerity and conviction of a child. 

The Bentley continued its rapid descent. They were close enough to see the features of human living-- trees, houses, and church spires. Maintaining their course against the howling of the powerful wind was incredibly difficult: they had nearly reached the center of the storm. Over the trees of Tadfield, Aziraphale saw the squat buildings and runways of the airbase, protected by a series of fences. 

“There!” he yelled to Crowley, who couldn’t see much, as he was a) behind the car’s bumper, and 2) generally on fire. 

“Got it!” Crowley yelled back, the yellow flames making his eyes gleam behind the frames of his cracked and melting sunglasses. 

They soared over the exterior fence of the air base to the astonishment of the guards below, who’d already had a very trying day. Aziraphale grimaced as he strained upwards with a bright burst of angelic power, slowing the momentum of the car at the last possible second. With a bright flash of light, the right side of the Bentley slammed into the ground, bouncing a few times as Aziraphale desperately clutched to the top frame of the passenger’s side door. Crowley flapped behind the Bentley, clinging to the bumper as his body weaved through the air with serpentine agility. 

Metal screeched as the car slowed through the combined efforts of Crowley, Aziraphale, and friction. The car scraped across the asphalt with a sound like the nails of a thousand sadistic teachers dragged against an equal number of chalkboards, mingled with the screams of the burning plants inside. 

After grinding across half of the air base landing strip, to the astonishment of the soldiers, the Horsepersons, and the Them, the car stopped neatly ten feet away from the Antichrist. Adam Young was the only one who didn’t look remotely surprised by the sudden appearance of a mostly molten car-shaped comet in the middle of the air base.

Crowley pried his fingers individually off the end of the car, dropping onto the ground. His nose was bleeding, and the little tongues of flame flickered on his shoulders and pant legs. Every individual strand of Aziraphale’s hair stood on end, blown back by the wind and shocked by his final exertion of power, making him look as if he had been electrocuted. He was still clutching the carpet bag of books firmly underneath one arm, refusing to let anything separate him from his collection. Both of them were covered in a fine layer of exhaust, dirt, and fine metal particles. 

After pulling himself away from the car, Crowley brushed some of the debris from his skinny jeans, not that it made any difference in his overall appearance. Aziraphale hopped off the top of the car, unperturbed by the fire, and jumped down beside Crowley on the pavement, wings extended. The assembled crowd looked even more astonished to see two living occupants of the car, which was now only nominally car-shaped, except for Death, who grinned. Then again, he was always grinning. 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. The angel’s eyes were brimming with the kind of tears, and not from the strain of staring against the wind. They were the kind of tears that can only appear in the eyes of someone who is about to willingly face their greatest fear in the company of someone they love very dearly, and doesn’t quite know what to do with the turbulent mix of emotions in their chest. This was no time for conversation. 

Angel and demon stepped forward to stand behind the Them in silent support, side-by-side as they squared off against the Four Horsepersons of the Apocalypse.

“Hello,” Adam Young said cheerfully. “What took you so long?”

“Sorry,” Crowley said. “Took a detour. To, er. Saturn.” 

“Hmm,” said the Antichrist, sagely accepting information like a boss who has decided to let his employee’s excuse for being late slide, just this once. 

“Your car is on fire,” Pepper pointed out disapprovingly. “What’s it doing that for?” 

“Can’t be good for the insur’nce premiums,” Wensleydale said. “That’s what my dad always says, when someone’s got problems with their car.” 

SORRY TO INTERRUPT, Death said. BUT COULD WE RETURN TO THE MATTER AT HAND? 

“Right, sorry, sorry,” Adam said. “Not everyday you see a flaming car, is all. Now, where were we?” 

THE END OF DAYS, Death reminded him, helpfully. 

“Oh, yeah,” Adam. “About that.” 

*** * ***

After everything was over, after the Apocalypse had been quite thoroughly averted by an eleven-year-old boy who didn’t want any more messing around with humanity, after the horsemen had been defeated and death had taken to the wing, after Newt had successfully destroyed the communications array by fixing it, and after Crowley and Aziraphale had stood before Satan with a tire iron and a flaming sword and smiled as Adam Young told him What was What, things were quiet. 

They waited for the bus. Aziraphale gave his sword back to the recently resurrected and somewhat bewildered International Express man. The yellow glow of the overhead street-lights made the whole scene feel serene and surreal, and reminded Aziraphale of the oil lamps of past centuries spilling out onto darkened streets from late-night cafes. Since he’d gifted them with fire, humanity had treasured light as a bulwark against the darkness. He treasured it now. 

Aziraphale snuck a gaze to his left, watching an oddly nervous-looking Crowley out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes embracing the darkness wasn’t so bad. 

“I-uh,” Crowley began.

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, voice tired but not unkind. As a rule, he didn’t sleep, but he was beginning to consider making an exception. He’d had quite the day, and only the hard wooden seat-back of the bench and lingering terror of the past twenty-four hours prevented him from actually drifting off to sleep. 

“I should apologize,” Crowley said.

“Later,” Aziraphale murmured. They had time, now. That was the whole point. “Later.” 

Crowley nodded, and they spent the entire bus ride back to London enjoying the gentle silence of a night that no one expected would arrive, least of all themselves. The silence lasted until they rode the elevator up to Crowley’s sleek apartment. Crowley’s eyes were drooping by the time he unlocked the door. 

The remaining houseplants shook as Aziraphale and Crowley entered the front hallway, still traumatized by the sudden disappearance of several of their number without explanation when Crowley had teleported them into the Bentley. The puddle of Ligur still covered the threshold of the door into Crowley’s main living space, and Crowley gave it a wide berth as they crossed up into the room. 

“Your Mona Lisa,” Aziraphale said, looking up at the blank space on the wall. 

“Eh,” Crowley said, pointedly avoiding looking at the empty spots where the plants burned in the Bentley once stood. “I can always pick up another one.” 

“Please don’t burgle the Louvre,” Aziraphale said. “You can’t get cocky just because you saved the planet.” 

“Didn’t do very much, really,” Crowley said, then yawned. He walked over to his uncomfortable-looking highly-engineered low black couch and flopped across it, wincing as his bones jolted against the stiff fabric. “I need a better couch,” he muttered. 

Aziraphale walked over to join Crowley, perching delicately on the couch near his feet. “This won’t do at all,” he said after a moment, looking down at the couch with displeasure. The surprised couch suddenly found itself growing cushions and a high back, which Crowley immediately snuggled into. 

“Mmmmm,” Crowley said. “Thanksssss.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Aziraphale said, relaxing back into the cushions and finally letting his carpet bag of books thunk down to the floor next to the couch. Crowley reached up and pulled his glasses off his face, throwing them carelessly up onto a small table behind his head. 

“How long do you think we have?” Aziraphale asked, looking up at the ceiling. “Before heaven and hell catch up with us?”

“Hmm,” Crowley. “Dunno. A day? Lessss?” 

“Quite likely,” Aziraphale said. 

Aziraphale looked down at his clothing, then gently miracled the grime and grease and small dirt particles accumulated during their pell-mell descent towards the Earth off of his clothing. The coat was still wrinkled, and his waistcoat was missing two buttons, but the clothing was at least clean. Crowley snapped his fingers and changed into a set of black silk pajamas, heedless of the company. They were far past that point. 

“So,” Crowley said, once he’d miracled the smoke residue off of his face. “Apocalypse averted.” 

“Quite.” 

A beat of silence. 

“I believe you said something earlier about an apology?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Yes,” Crowley said, and let the moment linger, in the hopes that acknowledging he intended to apologize would count as an apology, and they could skip the uncomfortable parts like “owning your mistakes” and “emotional vulnerability.” 

“And?” Aziraphale asked with feigned innocence after a pause. 

_Damn_. 

“You know what I mean,” Crowley said. 

“I believe I do,” Aziraphale said. “But I should rather like to hear you say it.” 

“For taking off into space,” Crowley said. “I’m sorry. I… panicked. Thought it was the only way. World ending, and all that.”

“And?” 

“Uh,” Crowley said. 

“Anything else to add?” 

“Uhhh,” Crowley said. “I sinssserely apologissse?” he added, hissing with nerves. 

“And?” 

“I’ll… never do it again?” 

“I thought that rather went without saying,” Aziraphale said, drily. He paused a moment, tilting his head. “Crowley, do you understand _why_ your actions were so upsetting to me?” 

“Ngk,” Crowley said, very clearly resisting the urge to slither away. “Look. I’m sorry. I messed up, I know I did. Just tell me what I can do to fix it. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “I’m not interested in groveling.” 

“Then… what, Aziraphale? Do you want me to leave? Give you space?” 

Aziraphale looked up at him, wry. “Would I be sitting in your apartment if I wanted you to give me space?” he asked. “And, in any case, space was the crux of the issue, wasn’t it? No, I think you’ve given me enough space for one day.” 

Crowley reached up to wrench his fingers through his hair, then brought his arms out wide in a beseeching gesture. “I- what, then? What?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “I was upset because you didn’t trust me. More than that, you _knew_ that I wished to stay on Earth and deliberately went against my wishes.” 

“I, ah, wasn’t trying to-” 

“It doesn’t matter what you intended, Crowley, that’s what you did!” Aziraphale cried, before calming, his voice becoming firm and strident. “I understand why you felt your actions were necessary, but I need to know that you will, in the future, always trust me to make my own decisions, and moreover, that you will always respect my wishes. You absolutely cannot make such decisions for me.” 

“'Course I trust you, angel,” Crowley, heart. 

“I would like to believe you,” Aziraphale said. “But I need your word. I need your promise that this will never happen again. After all, trust must be the basis for any relationship, especially if we are to be partners. Assuming, of course, that is also what you want.” 

Crowley spluttered. 

Aziraphale tilted his head, his expression vulnerable. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Have I misinterpreted?” he asked. “I… assumed, when you said that we were on our own side, and everything you needed in the universe was in the Bentley, that you were implying some sort of deeper relationship existed. Is that, in fact, what you want?” 

“Do l want to-“ Crowley said incredulously. “Yes. That is what I want. Have wanted it for six thousand bloody years, angel, not gonna stop now.” 

He seemed to realize the magnitude of what he’d just confessed, and stopped short. “Um.” 

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “In that case, I must still ask: have I made myself clear?” 

“Y-yesssss,” Crowley said, wincing at the hiss. “Yeah. Quite clear.” 

“Good. And I have your word?” 

“Yes.” 

“And if something like this were to happen again?” Aziraphale said intently. “If you thought you needed to make such a decision to save my life?” 

“Ergh… I would. Not… do that?” 

Aziraphale sighed. “You need to have a conversation with me about the relevant matter, Crowley.” 

“Right!” Crowley said. “Right. Yes. I would. Talk to you, that is. Yep.” 

“Good,” Aziraphale said. “Well, now that that’s settled. Won’t you come here?” 

“...what?” 

Aziraphale reached down and patted the place beside him on Crowley’s recently-comfortable couch. Slowly, as if afraid of being bitten, Crowley sat up, settling into place next to Aziraphale. 

They sat side-by-side in silence for a long moment, before Aziraphale reached out and rested his hand over Crowley’s. Slowly, with infinite care, Crowley flipped their hands over and wove his fingers through Aziraphale’s, their palms pressing together. 

“I… really am sorry,” Crowley said. 

“I forgive you,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley shifted against the couch, sliding into a more relaxed posture. The plants shook their leaves as the cold moonlight shone bright through the window, illuminating the harsh lines of the apartment, none of which he noticed. His entire being was concentrated on Aziraphale's hand, soft and warm in his grasp. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, “when you say partners…” 

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand, gently. “I’m not sure, exactly, what I want,” he said. “But I rather hoped we could figure it out together. We seem to have a talent for it. I was nearly certain we were going to be violently discorporated earlier, and yet here we are.” 

“You thought we were certain to die and you stillwanted to go back?” Crowley asked. “You wouldn’t flee with your… _partner_?” 

“It wasn't a wholly unreasonable assumption,” Aziraphale said. “And... I know that terms of human endearment might not be important for beings such as ourselves, but I suppose we can have that conversation on a later date. Assuming, of course, that we both survive the inevitable and swift-approaching retribution of our respective superiors.” 

“I think they're important,” Crowley muttered under his breath. 

“Speaking of which,” Aziraphale said, looking down at the carpet bag. “I believe Agnes may have a solution for us, in those final few prophecies.” 

“Really?” Crowley said, trying to focus back on the looming threat of imminent death and not word _partner_ , which was now on continuous loop in his brain. “Answer for everything, that one. Well, what is it?” 

Aziraphale lingered for another moment. Angel and demon sat side-by-side in the moonlight. Then Aziraphale gave Crowley’s hand another reassuring squeeze, and released it in order to reach down into the carpet bag and retrieve _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies._

Flipping the book open to one of the final pages, he skimmed down until he found the prophecy he’d read earlier when the Bentley was floating somewhere near Saturn. He read over it a couple of times, nodding to himself, before looking back up at Crowley. 

“I’m not sure if you’re going to like this,” Aziraphale said. 

“Like what?” 

“How well do you think you can impersonate me?” Aziraphale asked, placing the book across both of their laps and pointing towards the relevant prophecy, between a confusingly worded warning not to purchase a waterski and a description of one of the defenstrations of Prague. 

_When all is fated and all is done, ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enough ye will be playing with fire,_ appeared in spindly typography across the page. 

“‘Choose your faces wisely’... you can’t be serious,” Crowley said, after reading over the lines several times. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale said. “This is the book that led us from the planet Saturn back to the Earth-- in a very timely manner, I might add. I’m perfectly serious.” 

Crowley stared down at the book for a moment, then looked up at Aziraphale. “Sure I can’t persuade you to flee to Alpha Centauri?” 

Aziraphale’s glare could have withered a man alive. 

*** * ***

Crowley, who had committed long ago to being cool (with mixed success, depending on who you asked. If you mentioned the fact to Aziraphale, he might burst out laughing), did not often admit to being nervous. Still, there was no time like the End Times to make a few changes, even if Armageddon had been more temporary than expected. 

Being nervous about standing trial before heaven while wearing the body of an angel-- your _partner--_ after saving the world, or at least standing near the group of eleven-year-old children who were busy saving the world, was entirely reasonable. Any being would admit to being nervous in that very specific situation. 

As it was, Crowley’s mouth was bound, so he couldn’t say much of anything at all as the angels beamed him up to the sleek heavenly headquarters. He tried to avoid looking around in curiosity at the ultramodern architecture as they firmly bound him to a chair-- they’d certainly updated a few things since he was last here six-thousand years ago. Then again, you could expect a certain level of presentation in Heaven. Always liked to keep face. 

_Looks more like my place than Aziraphale’s,_ he thought with some displeasure, just as he heard Gabriel’s footsteps echoing behind him in the cavernous ultramodern space. 

“Ah, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, walking up behind him and clapping him on the shoulder a little too firmly to be friendly. “So glad you could join us.” 

The smug bastard walked past the chair and turned to face him. There was a tightness around his eyes and in his smug grin that indicated he was particularly displeased today. Crowley couldn’t imagine why. 

He deflected, adopting Aziraphale’s gentle tone. “You could have just sent a message,” he said. “I mean, a kidnapping in broad daylight?”

“Call it what it was: an extraordinary rendition,” Gabriel said, grinning without an ounce of good humor as he clapped his hands together. “Now, I think you’re going to like this. I really do. And I bet you didn’t see this one coming.” 

Although he didn’t know it yet, Gabriel would have lost that bet quite spectacularly. 

A demon with two tufted ears that looked as though they were made of dust bunnies collected beneath a bed entered the room, looking distinctly uncomfortable with his surroundings. Crowley sympathized, but schooled his face into a patient neutral expression, resisting the urge to glower at the lot of them. 

The demon was carrying a cardboard archival box stained with some unpleasant-looking black liquid. Uriel glared at him as he stepped further into the room, holding the box carefully in front of him as if nervous about the contents. 

“Is that it?” she asked, scathing. 

The demon gulped and nodded, setting the box down in the center of the room and carefully opening it. A veritable tornado of hellfire spiraled up out of the box, scorching a wide black circle of smoke on the ceiling of heaven. 

“Ah,” Gabriel said. “Excellent. Well done.” 

Next to him, Uriel smirked. Sandalphon grinned, lopsided and yellow-toothed. The disposable demon edged into a corner behind him, grateful at least that this particular punishment could not harm him. 

“How about that?” Gabriel asked, pointing at the pillar of fire and chuckling. “I mean who would have thought? Extraordinary circumstances, I know. After you averted the war with one act of treason.” 

Crowley avoided looking at the pillar of flame. Couldn’t give things away, when the morons were eating up every line. “Well, I think the greater good-”

“Don’t talk to me about the greater good, sunshine. I’m the archangel fucking Gabriel,” said Gabriel. Were Aziraphale actually present, he might point out that Gabriel was not, in fact, the archangel _fucking_ Gabriel, as none of the archangels were engaged in intercourse at the present moment. Crowley, however, contented himself with a soft smile, the one that always captivated Crowley’s attention the instant it appeared. 

“We were finally going to settle things with the opposition, once and for all,” Gabriel continued, all semblance of good humor vanished from his voice. " _That_ would be the greater good.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Crowley continued amiably. “It rather seems like the Almighty agrees with me. I can’t imagine she intended for Armageddon to really happen, given how things have turned out. Humanity deserves better than our war. I... still have that much faith in Her." 

“You have faith in Her? Really?” Gabriel asked, the reflected flames of hellfire flickering in his angelic purple eyes. “Funny way of showing it, huh?” he said, looking to his colleagues beside him. Sandalphon laughed humorlessly, and Uriel smirked. She stepped forward to unbind Aziraphale’s wrists. 

“Up,” she said, tone brokering no argument. 

“I don’t suppose I can persuade you to reconsider,” Crowley said, pausing in front of the pillar of flame. He could feel the heat playing across Aziraphale's skin. This ruse had better work, or the next few moments would be very uncomfortable. He continued talking, stalling as long as possible. “I can’t see why I should be punished for believing that humanity doesn’t deserve to be wiped out. We’re meant to be the good guys, for heaven’s sake.” 

“Well, for _heaven’s_ sake, we are meant to make examples of traitors, so: into the flame,” Gabriel said. 

Bracing himself, Crowley stepped forward. No point in delaying any more. “Right,” he said pleasantly. “Well. Lovely knowing you all. May we meet on a better occasion.” 

“Shut your stupid mouth and die already,” Gabriel said. A grotesque grin twisted his face. 

Crowley sighed. Showtime. He stepped forward into the pillar of hellfire, relaxing as the warmth washed over him without burning his skin. There was really nothing like a hellfire bath, and he hadn’t allowed himself to enjoy one in so long. Even in Aziraphale’s borrowed corporation, he felt his joints loosen and muscles relax, and he cracked his neck, relishing the loud pop. Looking up at the shocked angels standing before him, he gave into the impulse to taunt those self-righteous pricks who weren’t worth even an ounce of Aziraphale’s attention. He breathed out, sending a column of flame whirling towards them. 

Gabriel, Sandalphon, and Uriel staggered backwards, their clothes smoking slightly after nearly being singed by hellfire. In the corner, the disposable demon cowered down, adopting the tornado safety position on the floor by curling over his knees and folding his hands over the back of his neck. It had been a stressful few days. 

After a few moments, as Aziraphale’s body remained stubbornly unburnt, Gabriel sighed. 

“This may be worse than we thought,” he said. 

*** * ***

The Apocalypse had been averted about fifteen hours ago, and an angel and a demon had been drinking steadily at the Ritz for the past three of them. Not the kind of drinking which had been taking place in Aziraphale’s bookshop eleven years ago, when Crowley was desperately trying to convince Aziraphale to help him raise the Antichrist. This was the kind of relaxed, celebratory drinking only possible after a difficult project has been completed, or in this case, the Apocalypse has been successfully averted. 

Paired with excellent food, better company, and the distant trilling of a nightingale, the champagne and the release of nervous anticipation of the end of the world had thoroughly relaxed both of them. Crowley’s body was looking more serpentine by the minute, and he seemed liable to slide right off his chair and take a very well-deserved nap. 

Instead, Crowley pushed himself upright to watch Aziraphale dab gently at his lips after finishing off the second course of dessert. 

“Tell me again,” Crowley said. 

“About what?” Aziraphale asked. 

“You. Michael. Towel,” Crowley said, smiling softly. 

Aziraphale gave an uncharacteristically unrefined giggle. “Mmm. Yes,” he said, after composing himself. “I was splashing around in the bathtub of holy water,” he said gleefully. “Oh, you should have seen the hordes of hell. Astonished as anything.” 

“I bet.”

“And then Michael came to collect the holy water back-- couldn’t leave it in the hands of hell, you see, and she was flabbergasted to see I-- well, she thought I was you, of course-- but simply flabbergasted. Gobsmacked. Thunderstruck!” he giggled again, then startled himself by hiccuping. 

“I nearly torched Gabriel,” Crowley offered. “Breathed a column of hellfire right at him.” 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. “I bet he wasn’t too fond of that.” 

“No,” Crowley said, with a wry smile. “But I think he might have preferred it to what I said.” 

“Oh?”

“I paraphrased,” Crowley said. “I was playing you, after all.” 

Aziraphale leaned forward, looking slightly more sober than he had a moment before. “And what did you say?” he asked. 

“What you said in the car near Saturn, when you convinced me to turn around,” Crowley said. “That you believe humanity is worth saving and the Almighty planned things this way. That we should have a little faith in humanity, if nothing else.” 

Aziraphale turned a shrewd eye on him, taking a sip out of his champagne glass. “And? Did you mean it?” 

Crowley looked around at the restaurant. Yesterday the world had been ending. Today the humans were already moving on and forgetting the strange events, dismissing them as easily as they dismissed any indication that the supernatural moved among them. 

Humans could invent tortures beyond his wildest dreams. They could tear each other to shreds. At their worst, they out-rivalled the darkest pits of hell, and out-imagined even the most depraved of demons. But they could also invent something as simple and wonderful as sitting in a restaurant, spending time with someone and sharing food with them simply because you liked them. Neither heaven nor hell would pay the slightest attention to something so small, so simple. The meals being shared around them were inconsequential in the cosmic card game between good and evil. 

There was something wonderful in watching normality reassert itself. Despite the unfairness and cruelty always present in civilization, people still helped and loved each other, not because they were divinely mandated to do so, but because they could. They hoped and dreamed and tried, so very hard, to be better. They kept failing, often horribly, and they kept trying anyway. Perhaps they would fail, in the end, but they would keep hoping till the last. 

Aziraphale was right. Crowley would have been miserable spending eternity alone. Even if the angel had come with him, he would never have really stopped missing the familiar comforts of humanity. There was no sense of humor in Heaven or Hell. Neither side knew depravity or serenity quite as well as humanity, because they knew both. 

No more messing around. Adam Young had the right of it there, and thank God, or Satan, or humanity, really, that he did. Thank Adam. 

Aziraphale was still waiting patiently for an answer. He was smiling at Crowley, gently, as he if knew what he was thinking, which he did, because he was thinking the same. 

Crowley stretched out his legs, and gave his answer. 

“Still don’t understand why She can’t just explain herself a little more clearly,” he said. “But I’ll admit it. I’ve got faith in at least two things.” 

“What would those be?” Aziraphale said, his eyes twinkling. 

“Humanity,” Crowley said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, drawing his face closer to Aziraphale’s. “And you.” 

*** * ***

Later that evening, an angel and a demon went for a walk in St. James’ Park. Aziraphale reached out to take Crowley’s hand, threading their fingers together. Neither one of their superiors would have understood it: such a simple, reassuring gesture of human affection. But in six-thousand years on Earth, Aziraphale and Crowley had learned a few things. 

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, and Aziraphale squeezed back, and both of them smiled as they continued walking into a lovely evening. 

They had all the time in the world. 

**Author's Note:**

> And that's that! I hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> Also, if you were wondering what happened to Shadwell: he took Madame Tracy's moped and got stuck in the all-London traffic jam caused by the burning M-25. He mourned Newt as a lost soldier for the rest of his days, which would have greatly surprised Newt if anyone had told him. 
> 
> Because this is a canon AU, some of the dialogue was transcribed from the show. I also owe a few jokes to Terry Pratchett's discworld series (which I'm just getting into and greatly enjoying), and the Good Omens book, which has been one of my favorites for years. So thanks, Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. You're great. It's been fun. 
> 
> (If you liked this, check out my other good omens fic, or follow me on tumblr @oldguardians! And to anyone following by any other name or the love that you've looked for, updates are coming soon!!)


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